


Sharpen

by derangedfangirl



Series: Fade [2]
Category: Thunderheart (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derangedfangirl/pseuds/derangedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Alright, sugar, let’s make it even.  Want me to elbow you in the face real quick?  Absolve you of some of your irrational guilt?”  Sequel to 'Fade'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



  
Walter wakes up at exactly 3:59 a.m. to a cold bed, rumpled sheets, and a distinct lack of company.    
  
There’s a sick, slick panic beginning to unfurl in his belly, and he quells it mostly by cursing Ray for waking him up with only an hour left before his alarm.  No way he’ll be getting back to sleep, now.  He rolls over, smacks his pillow a couple of times, and heaves his uncooperative body out of bed.  His joints ache and his eyelids itch with inadequate sleep; he rubs ineffectually at both as he pads into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.  Ray’s fancy-ass running shoes are absent from their closet-home, and relief is heavy on his tongue.  
  
Ray hasn’t been sleeping too well, lately.  Sometimes when it gets bad enough, (whatever _it_ is- Ray won’t elaborate much beyond ‘nightmares’, and that only if he’s feeling particularly verbose) he abandons any attempt to pursue sleep and exorcises his demons by laying sneakers to pavement.  It’s been almost two months and Ray still hasn’t picked up any weight despite Walter’s best efforts and his ma’s apple crumble recipe, because he’s been running maybe ten miles every other night, probably more, because he won’t give Crow Horse a straight answer when he asks.  
  
He doesn’t look blissful afterwards, either- Walter hasn’t seen that wide, unguarded grin but maybe once since he’s been home, and he tries to remember not to take it personally, which usually works, but sometimes doesn’t.  And because the last run Ray took ended with Walter acting as sole provider for Ray’s damn dog for near half a year, waking up to an empty bed inspires apprehension he can feel in his bones.    
  
Walter listens to the steady hum of the coffee maker, and figures there’s no harm in giving in to the leaden weight of his eyelids for just a second.    
  
He dozes, in that sort of bleary, half awake dream-state where everything begins to fade and blur together, only startling into consciousness when a coffee mug is placed before him with a muffled _clink_ that somehow manages an echo.  Momentarily disoriented, he jerks back hard enough to tip his chair backward, and he hangs in the air for half a second, stomach dropping through his toes, but somehow Ray is behind him, steadying it with sure hands, placing the chair back on all fours.    
  
“What, you fuckin’ spider man now?”    
  
“Nah.” Ray drops into the chair across from him, lips quirked, stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt and throwing it in the general direction of the laundry.  “You don’t look much like a ‘Peter’.”    
  
His brain is still sleep-fuzzed, and it takes him a second to figure out what the fuck Ray’s talking about, but when he does, he snorts appreciatively and salutes him with his coffee.  They sit in silence, mostly comfortable, Walter’s brain still trying to catch up with the waking world, but the twin grooves between Ray’s brows deepen, lips pressing together.    
  
“M’sorry, Walter.  Did I wake you?”  
  
“Nah,” he lies easily.   Ray doesn’t look even remotely convinced, but he doesn’t press it, just settles back into his chair and stares into his coffee more than drinks it.  Crow Horse tugs himself to his feet, grabs some of Ray’s strawberry yogurt and granola stuff out of the fridge, (because he doesn’t like to eat much after a run, makes him feel sick) and this time Ray’s the one with the grateful nod, mostly because half the time he forgets he’s hungry until Walter brings it up.     
  
“I’ll start sleeping on the couch.” Ray mutters, twisting his spoon around in his yogurt without quite looking at him.  
  
“No you won’t.” Crow Horse returns casually, tone implying that Ray’s being an idiot (which he is), and that Walter is completely unaffected by the suggestion (which he isn’t).  
  
“Look, you have to sleep.  I can’t keep waking you up like this.  You’re gonna get sick.”  
  
Walter gives him a pointed once-over, left eyebrow inching up toward his hairline.  “Yeah, _Kola_.  It’s my health we should be worried about, here.”  
  
The pleasant curve of Ray’s lips distorts, thinning into an uncompromising line, tongue pushing against his cheek the way it does when he’s trying to keep from saying something he’ll regret.  
  
“I hit you, earlier.”  He grinds out, finally.  
  
Walter didn’t know Ray’s voice could get that quiet.  
  
“No,” he points out reasonably, “You started flailing in your sleep and your elbow accidentally connected with my face.  There’s a difference.”  
  
“Not really.  Already starting to bruise.” The self loathing in his voice is palpable, and Walter sorta wants to smack him for it.  
  
“I’ve had worse, dumbass.  It’s fine.”  
  
“Not from me.”  
  
“You’re not sleeping on the couch.”  
   
Walter’s not fucking around, now.  He’s not gonna lose Ray this soon after finally getting him back.  He’s just not.  Ray doesn’t say anything, just clenches his jaw, stubborn.  
  
“Alright, sugar, let’s make it even.  Want me to elbow you in the face real quick?  Absolve you of some of your irrational guilt?”  
  
There’s almost no better way to get Ray’s hackles up than to question his rationality.  Walter knows he’s treading in dangerous territory, now, especially with Not-Ray still bubbling this close to the surface, but goddammit, Ray’s been treating him with kid-gloves since he’s been home, refusing to let Walter _help_ him, unwilling to share anything ugly, because he seems unable to remember that not only can Walter take care of himself, but he can damn well take care of Ray, too.  
  
“Drop it, Walter.” he murmurs, going still in a way that would be terrifying if it weren’t Ray.      
  
Crow Horse grins, but it’s mirthless, designed to piss him off in the most efficient way possible.  “Come on, _kola_ , ain’t got all day.” he pushes his chair back and stands, leans over the table, into Ray’s space, as alpha as he knows how.  Ray’s eyes flicker, and some weird smirk twists his lips, but Walter doesn’t particularly care, because all the pent up emotion from the past two months, from the past year is finally bubbling to the surface, coming to a head.  
  
His ma had always told him not to pick at his scabs.  Walter’s never been real good at listening.  
  
But Ray’s face has gone blank again, cool as anything, staring into his coffee.  “Drop it.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Surprise registers, quick as a flash, and then it’s like he’s turned to stone.    
  
Adrenaline pumps in Walter’s blood, because Ray isn’t the only one who’s been making good use of his kid gloves, and he’s determined to break through this glacial exterior and find _Ray_ again.  If that means putting up with a few bruises, well.    
  
He circles around the table, taking advantage of the momentary delay in Ray’s reaction-time, distracted by his own internal conflict, and uses the full force of his considerable weight to pin Ray to the wall.    
  
“You want me to leave it be, _Kola_?” blue-gray eyes bore into his, begging him to just let it go, his whole body stiff like rigor-mortis underneath Walter’s hands.  “Not gonna.  What’s it gonna take to get this through that thick skull of yours?” he leans his forehead against Ray’s for emphasis, tries to ignore the way he flinches.  “I can handle it.  I can handle _you_.  I’m your fucking partner- let me do my job.”  
  
Ray emits some noise halfway between a sob and a laugh and a growl, his chest vibrating with it- “You can handle it?  You can fucking _handle_ it?  I’m not a fucking horse, Walter, it’s not your job to _handle_ me.” his words start coming quicker, almost manic, and despite Walter’s competent hold on him, many years practiced on all manner of folk, Ray bucks and twists just once, and somehow dislodges him- Crow Horse snatches one wrist out of the air and tries to use it as leverage, but Mr. Hotshot knows what he’s gonna do before he even does, and suddenly he’s face-down on the kitchen floor, Ray perched atop his back, his breath ragged against Walter’s neck and one hand covering his mouth.  “You can’t handle shit.”  
  
He forgets, though, that Walter has some advantages here.  Not just his weight, not just having a dog in this particular fight, or even the fact that in terms of pure experience, Crow Horse has years on him in more way than one.    
  
Walter relaxes, letting his head drop to the floor like he’s giving in, going boneless in Ray’s grip like all the fight’s gone out of him- he waits for the shift in Ray’s weight, the hand clawed in his hair to loosen, patient.   Thirty seconds, forty, and he can imagine the flare of Ray’s nostrils as he gathers himself, feels hot panting against his neck, and then, finally-  
An almost imperceptible shift, but Walter’s ready for it and he throws his weight to one side, sending Ray, who’s still too fucking skinny, sprawling across the floor, knocking the wind out of him.  All of his muscles tense, and it takes all of the dexterity and quickness Walter can muster to catch his wrists and straddle him before he can get away.    
  
“I can handle it.” he rumbles against Ray’s ear, diesel engine low.    
  
Ray spits and struggles and tries to work his way out of Walter’s grip, but it’s sure and steady- Ray bucks, teeth bared, looking half-feral, and Crow Horse closes his eyes and makes soft calming noises, tries to will Ray into stillness.    
  
“Let go of me!” it’s an order, loud enough to make his ears ring, and Walter flinches back, refocuses his gaze on the angular face just a breath away, and something around where he figures his heart is feels sharp, like a pebble he can’t quite get out of his shoe.    
  
“Not letting go, Ray.” he murmurs, and what it really means is, _‘I love you’_ , but those words stick in his throat just now.  Ray hears them anyway, probably.    
  
“Get off-” he tries again, but his voice breaks, warbling out of control before he can stop it, and Crow Horse presses a kiss to his forehead, hoping it doesn’t earn him a split lip.  “Fucking- Walter, get _off_ of me-” it’s weaker now, and Ray turns his face to the side, trying to hide the redness blooming around his eyes and nose, and suddenly Walter realizes that Ray has never cried in front of him, not once, and now he moves- he lets go of Ray’s wrists and rolls them again, gathering Ray to his chest as his whole body begins shuddering with huge, violent, wracking sobs.  And he holds him, laying hands on his back, shoulders, hair; rocks him and tries to embody every comfort Ray needs right now.    
  
They sit there like that for god knows how long.  The alarm clock rings shrill, somewhere in the distance.  Walter ignores it.   
  
Ray takes a couple of deep breaths, steadies himself.    
  
“Should probably go get that.”  
  
Crow Horse shrugs.  “No rush.”  
  
Ray settles back into his chest, eyelids fluttering closed, and Walter holds him there, strong and sure.  
  
“Gonna be fine, Ray.  Gonna be just fine.”


End file.
